A look of anger flared over her face and she thrust her chest into his, pushing him back a step as she began to walk him across the room. “Attractive?” she snapped, her eyes flashing dangerously.
“I meant ‘beautiful’,” Fei Long corrected as he backed nearly into the workbench, “and ‘exquisite’ and ‘unique’.”
“Flowers,” she roared, “you would use those words to describe flowers. I am a warrior; I do not need to attract what I want—I take it!”
Fei Long backpedaled and tried to create as much space as possible, but Lu Bu was too agile and she easily cut off his escape route. His mind raced as he tried to come up with a proper response, and finally it came to him. “You are a warrior, of course,” he said quickly, “and warriors are often faced with superior forces, correct?”
Hot breath blasted out of her perfectly-shaped nostrils, and she narrowed her intoxicating eyes at him and pushed her forehead into his before saying, “More words? They have not yet served you well, Kongming.”
“When a warrior is faced with a superior force,” Fei Long continued, ignoring her dig at his chosen nickname and meeting her gaze, “h—she,” he corrected quickly, “must manipulate variables to her benefit, yes?”
Lu Bu’s eyes narrowed even more but she moved fractionally back. “Of course,” she spat.
“Then,” Fei Long said, taking a short breath as he realized his pulse was higher than he could ever remember it being, “being deemed ‘attractive’ is of tactical benefit. If a warrior can distract her opponents with…err…trivial things, like beauty,” he said, wincing in preparation for possible retribution, “she can then lure them into a trap where she can finish them using her martial prowess, yes?”
Lu Bu seemed to consider his words for a moment. “So…” she began slowly, still eyeing him with metaphorical fire in her eyes, “you do not compliment me merely for my appearance?”
“Of course not!” Fei Long lied with mock incredulity. “The attributes a person possesses are of far less importance than how those attributes are utilized. What good is beauty if it is not used to win a contest of some kind?”
Her expression softened briefly, but then she grabbed him by the collar of his robe and pulled him close to herself. She then planted what was easily the most passionate, powerful, uncomfortable, frightening and exhilarating kiss on his lips that he had ever experienced.
When their lips parted she shook her head severely. “You are a liar, Kongming,” she said before cracking a grin, “but at least you are good at it.”
“That is good to hear…I think,” he said with relief, not wishing to remind her of the kill pill implanted in his brain which would reward any dishonesty with instant death. He then checked the room’s wall-mounted chronometer and said in a politely suggestive tone, “We have thirty two minutes before the assembly…”
Her grin broadened. “You are also smart,” she said, grabbing and literally throwing him toward the bed, “which is why I love you.”
Chapter I: From the Top
“This crew has served with distinction, and I’m proud to have stood alongside each and every one of you,” Captain Middleton said from the mouth of the Pride’s shuttle bay, his back to the closed doors which led to the vacuum of Tracto’s space. “But we aren’t the only ones who have been through Hades in the past few months. The rest of the MSP has also suffered greatly since the Imperial withdrawal. The latest conflict, the Battle of Tracto, was a costly affair in terms of not only material assets but also human lives.”
He swept the bay with his gaze, and found every familiar face he had expected to see. He knew that this might be the last time he saw some of his brave crew, so he deliberately made eye contact with each person in sequence as he spoke.
“Admiral Montagne recognizes each of your contributions to the MSP’s charter and, more importantly, to the stability of the Spineward Sectors,” he continued, and he saw several shoulders square proudly throughout the room. “And it is because of that steadfast, exemplary service,” Middleton said, working hard not to chew on the words as they passed his lips, “that the Admiral and I have decided to impart your knowledge throughout the rest of the fleet. Effective as soon as the orders come through the pipeline, there will be a series of personnel transfers,” the chamber was filled with a chorus of murmurs, over which Middleton raised his voice commandingly above the din, “which will ensure that the rest of the fleet is as equipped to deal with the Droid menace as we have been.”
The assembled throng’s noise level diminished as they looked at Middleton with looks varying between resentment and acceptance—with even a few looks of unmitigated relief—and Middleton began to pace slowly along the deck in front of the massive pressure doors.
“Each of us,” he said, moving his hard gaze to each of his crewmembers in turn, “has overcome situations which would have sent lesser men and women screaming into the void. We have stood tall against insurmountable odds, and have lived not only to tell about it,” he paused emphatically as he continued to pace back and forth, “but to warn our fellows of the threat gathering beyond their horizon so that they might prepare to defend humanity from this virulent scourge—a scourge which would wipe out, or enslave, organic life everywhere if given its druthers. That, above all else, has been our greatest achievement.”
He stopped and squared his shoulders to the center of the group, clasping his hands behind his back as he did so and he could see looks of resolve appearing in the gathering of crew.
“And now it is our duty,” he continued in a slightly softer tone, “to assist our fellows in making the necessary preparations. You and you alone have faced these Droids and left them in your dust,” he said, fixing a rebellious-looking man with a piercing stare. The man—wearing Engineering patches—met Middleton’s gaze briefly before lowering his eyes. “And this makes each of you not only the bravest crew I’ve ever served with, but the most valuable asset the MSP has. All the ships in the fleet,” he swept his arm wide, as though encompassing half of the Tracto System, “will be worthless without the proper preparation. Our mission has given us valuable technical, and tactical, experience to impart; by transferring to the other ships in the MSP we give them the best chance, not only to survive, but to win.”
He stopped and heard a short chorus of soft snickers which were accompanied by barely-perceptible nods of approval, so he decided to seize on the moment.
“Oh, we could just ride back out there,” he said confidently as he began to pace again, “and I have no doubt that we would survive anything those upright washing machines could throw at us—after all, we’ve already recycled more than a few of them.” The room erupted in a round of tight laughter which quickly subsided, and Middleton waited until it had nearly died down before adding, “And while I can’t speak for each of you, I’ve resolved to kill, deactivate, slag, or atomize as many of those Demon-blasted things as possible. What about you?”
A chorus of approval burst from the assemblage, and Middleton nodded in approval as he kept his face a stony mask.
“Good,” he said loudly enough to be heard over the hoots, “because the best way to do that is to pack up your gear and await your transfer orders. The only way the MSP beats this synthetic horde back is if each of you teaches your new crews everything you know about taking these mechanical down hard, fast, and where they live. Do you get me?”
“We get you, sir!” the room roared, causing Middleton’s ears to ring immediately.
He ignored his temporary—at least he hoped it was temporary—deafness and nodded smartly, “Dismissed!”
The door to Middleton’s office adjoining the bridge slid shut and Lieutenant Sarkozi took her seat opposite Middleton’s, while Sergeant Gnuko sat beside her. The Lancer Sergeant was a mammoth of a man—the only men larger than he on the Pride of Prometheus were the genetically-engineered Tracto-ans.
But while Gnuko’s physical dimensions were strikingly similar to his predecessor’s, he somehow failed to liv
e up to Middleton’s visual memory of the late Sergeant Walter Joneson.
“I’m going to keep this brief,” Middleton said as he lowered himself into his chair and leaned back, “expect each of your departments to be gutted in the coming days.”
“Sir?!” they responded in unison, their voices achieving an improbably harmony as they did so with his deep, rumbling bass and her sharp, tight soprano.
“You heard me,” he said, setting his jaw and fixing them with a withering look in turn. “Fleet Command’s in need of skilled crew and officers, and it seems we’ve a plethora of both.”
“Captain,” Sarkozi protested, leaning forward and gesticulating animatedly with her hands, “we have barely a full shift’s worth of trained bridge officers! The rest are transfers or OJT’s who never set foot on a starship before coming aboard this one.”
“I’m well aware of our human resources, XO,” Middleton said grimly. “But it seems that while our situation seems barely tenable, the Fleet’s as a whole is so understaffed that I’m amazed they keep the ships from running into each other. We have nearly five times as many green junior officers and chief petties as the rest of the fleet; I doubt even the Admiral’s Flagship has as high a density of trained,” he scoffed the word, “officers as we do. In its current state, the MSP is as far into the red zone, when it comes to combat readiness, as one could imagine a mobile military force to be.”
“What about the seniors?” Gnuko asked, leaning forward intently. “Or, at least, what passes for a senior officer on the Pride,” he added with a smirk.
Middleton nodded in silent approval of his Lancer Sergeant’s cool-headed approach to the problem. “In light of our mission’s…sensitive nature,” he said with a pointed look to each of them, eliciting knowing nods from both, “the Admiral has expressed support for my suggestion that current department heads and senior-most officers should remain aboard the Pride of Prometheus. That includes me, the two of you, Chief Garibaldi, Mr. Fei, War Leader Atticus and a handful of other essential personnel…including one of our medical officers.”
Sergeant Gnuko leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly. “It could have been worse,” he said with a short shrug.
Middleton nodded in silent agreement as Sarkozi shot Gnuko a harsh look. “How can you say that?” she blurted. “Our mission is of the utmost importance to the security of the Spineward Sectors; we should be adding skilled personnel, not subtracting!”
“This is not a debate hall, XO,” Middleton said heavily, fixing the young woman with a hard look. She clearly wanted to protest but wisely sat back in her chair instead. “The Sergeant is right: this could have been much, much worse. Considering our…tardiness,” he said wryly, “along with the fact that we didn’t exactly come back bearing flowers and chocolates, we’re lucky to retain command of this mission. I firmly believe,” he swept his gaze between the two of them, “that the two of you have been instrumental to the creation of a command structure aboard this ship that gives us the best chance of accomplishing this mission. We need to consider ourselves fortunate if we retain the ability to perform this mission ourselves, rather than being forced to hand it off to some harebrained reservist—or worse, a Tracto-an commander.”
“I’ve read the reports of the Furious Phoenix’s mission to Capria,” Gnuko chuckled darkly. “I’ll say this for the Lady Akantha: she goes straight to the heart of the matter.”
“She assaulted the Royal Palace and then kidnapped the King!” Sarkozi blurted incredulously. “She attacked the Body Royal—literally—and then stole a battleship from orbit on her way out the door like one of us might palm a donut from the cafeteria.” She shook her head adamantly, “That woman’s insane, power-hungry, barbaric, and paints the rest of her gender in a bad light.”
“All the more reason for us to count our blessings,” Middleton said knowingly, and even Sarkozi had no rebuttal to that particular point. “See to securing all essential gear before the transfers take place, and get me an accurate,” he stressed the word, “inventory of our deployable gear ASAP. I’ve heard rumors of a secret stash the Admiral’s put away at fleet HQ, and I want to work our way to the head of the line with a workable set of requisitions. With any luck we might end up with some broadside weaponry on this old girl,” he said, and he could almost feel Sarkozi’s mouth begin to salivate from across the table.
He was cut from the same cloth as Sarkozi, as both had been Tactical Officers before attaining their current posts, so he shared her desire to shore up the Pride of Prometheus’ most glaring weaknesses—chiefly, her lack of broadside armament—as quickly as possible.
“What about our Lancers, Captain?” Gnuko asked hesitantly. “I’d just arranged rapid-response security teams out of our remaining Lancers. If we lose our Lancers…”
Middleton ground his teeth, understanding all too well what his Lancer Sergeant was implying. The Pride’s internal security was a potentially serious problem, and that problem would be magnified if Gnuko’s hand-picked loyalists were transferred to other ships. “I’ve got a few ideas on the matter,” he confessed, “but the truth is none of them negate the security gap these transfers are going to create. At least we can count on keeping most of the surviving members of the ComStat Hub strike team here,” he said, thanking Murphy for small miracles. “The Admiral wants our mission kept on the strict QT, is that clear?”
“Tri-Locsium, sir,” they replied in unison, shooting each other bemused looks after they had once again harmonized. Tri-Locsium was a theoretical material which, supposedly, would solve several micro-engineering problems. But, as yet, it had never been produced outside of a virtual simulation. Sergeant Joneson had often used the ‘Tri-Locsium’ quip in place of the standard ‘crystal’ reply, when asked if he had clearly understood his orders. In Big Walt’s mind, Tri-Locsium was perfectly transparent since it didn’t actually exist.
Apparently Middleton was not the only one who had been affected by the former Smashball star’s time aboard the Pride.
“Work up those reports,” Middleton instructed, “and be prepared for the worst.”
“I’m not packing my bags just yet, sir,” Gnuko said with a deliberate shake of his head.
Middleton chuckled softly. “Ok…maybe not the worst,” he allowed, “but be ready to re-tool every department either of you oversee in any capacity. This is going to get worse before it gets better, and I don’t want us caught with our pants down.”
“We’ll be ready, sir,” Sarkozi said confidently.
“Good,” Middleton said, gesturing to the door, “dismissed.”
The two stood and left the room, after which Middleton closed his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. Ever since his meeting with the Admiral he’d had a headache that simply would not go away, and it didn’t look like that was going to improve any time soon.
But a headache was the least of his problems. The list of things he needed to do was longer than his arm, and he knew that it would all need addressing sooner or later. For better or worse, right at that moment he knew what he really needed to do.
So Middleton stood, straightened his uniform, and made his way to the brig.
Chapter II: A Medical Quandary
Middleton strode into the brig and nodded to Rice, a former Lancer whose injuries sustained early on in the Pride’s mission had rendered him unfit for active Lancer duty, so he had become an internal security officer who spent the majority of his time overseeing the brig.
“Captain,” Rice said, standing to snap off a shaky salute. Middleton returned the salute and looked to the cell whose occupant he had come to speak with. “She’s awake, sir,” the former Lancer said before lowering himself back down into his chair. His nerves had been damaged so extensively that his limbs visibly shook whenever he performed complex gestures—even gestures like standing and sitting—and Middleton winced at the price the man had paid to protect the citizens of the Spineward Sectors. He silently promised himself—for at least the hundredth time�
��not to allow that sacrifice to have been made in vain.
“Thank you, Lancer,” he said as he moved toward the door. It slid open to reveal a small cell, and inside that cell was Doctor Jo Middleton—Captain Tim Middleton’s ex-wife.
“Tim—err, Captain,” she said as she stood from her bench-like cot. The two stood in mutual silence for several moments as Middleton looked pointedly around the room.
“I ordered you to report to your new quarters,” he said evenly, dearly hoping he had not made a mistake in tacitly requesting that Doctor Middleton remain aboard the Pride of Prometheus—a request made in spite of her all but committing treason on the bridge of the warship by authoring an unauthorized communication to a droid battlecruiser located in the same system.
Jo shook her head slowly. “I can’t do that yet, Tim,” she said, “not without a further understanding between us.”
“I think we understand each other well enough, Doctor,” he said levelly. “I’d like you to report to your new quarters so you can resume your duties aboard this vessel.”
“Tim—“ she began, but the cold, hard look Captain Middleton shot her way caused her to start over, “Captain…we have to talk about our last conversation.”
Middleton bristled. “I disagree, Doctor. This vessel is at war,” he said severely, “and her Captain has neither the time, nor the desire, to indulge in an examination of personal events so distant in the past as to be rendered utterly irrelevant. What that Captain does have, however,” he continued, fighting to keep his voice from rising as he did so, “is a desire for his Chief Medical Officer to resume her duties since the person currently filling that post is about to transfer to another ship. You took an oath,” he said, stepping forward and pointing an accusing finger at her—a finger which he quickly lowered to his side. “In that oath, you said you would do no harm. I think that it’s too late for that; all we can do is move past the harm you’ve already done. Now…are you going to transfer to your quarters or should I have you escorted off this ship on the next Tracto-bound shuttle? I’ve heard it’s nothing short of breathtaking—especially where the fairer sex is concerned,” he added bitterly before turning on his heel. When he reached the door, he paused and said over his shoulder, “If you haven’t checked into your new lodgings in ten minutes, I’ll have Sergeant Gnuko escort you from the Pride and you can get to know your new neighbors. While your medical skills would be superior to theirs, I’m guessing they know more about Hippocrates.”
Up The Middle (Spineward Sectors: Middleton's Pride Book 2) Page 2
